From my Sketchbook Writings – Jan 24, 2017
I tromp into the studio and flick on the lights. Four white wall greet me. My new behemoth of a workbench greets me. My jeweller’s bench, dwarfed in comparison, greets me. Both are cleared from clutter from the night before. Yesterday’s thoughts. Yesterday’s work. I find the cleared space calming.
I set down my purse, my tote bag, my womanly carry-alls and begin to unpack.
Outcomes Sketchbook – old and new,
Notebook – old and new;
(Since reading Tom Robbins’ Skinny Legs and All I find myself calling all inanimate objects by name, as if they have a secret, private life. Perhaps they do.)
I locate my favourite writing pen – a Zebra F-301 BP 0.7mm in black if you must know – and settle into the big, comfy chair in the corner of my studio to write.
But not before I unplug Tumbler, giving the machine a well deserved rest after a night of whirling tiny cityscapes an Morse Code necklaces to a gleaming, polished state. Not before plugging in little Crock Pot to warm the acid bath I clean the silver and gold with. Not before mentally noting I desire a side table of some sort on which to place my tea. Not before kicking off my well loved pair of boots.
I have yet to put a timestamp on last year’s work.
There is so much I have yet to do. Some designs have waited a year. This is the reason I must carry my filled sketchbooks with me. For reference. For reminders.
There is a physical weight of the work I have to do. Weighed in the wood pulp and binders that make up Sketchbook. Weighed in troy ounces of silver.